


Pourriture

by QueenCherry01



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Alana, Canon Retelling, F/F, F/M, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal the Cannibal, Happy Murder Family?, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, Jack Crawford Being an Asshole, M/M, Mum Alana, Murder Family, Other, Rachel is Abigail, Rachel needs a hug, Someone Help Will Graham, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why is english different from american
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-07 15:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17962979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCherry01/pseuds/QueenCherry01
Summary: Instead of Garrett Jacob Hobbs the Minnesota Shrike, there exists a man named Stanley Scott Jacobs, dubbed the Smiley Face Killer. Instead of young Abigail Hobbs falling victim to her father, the title has befallen Stanley Scott Jacobs daughter, Rachel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Different Victim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012215) by [Charlie_M](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie_M/pseuds/Charlie_M). 



“Rachel!” 

I get up from my desk in my room, whipping my paint smeared fingers on my jeans, leaving my paint brushes on the side. I open my door, climb down the stairs, my grandmother standing by the end of them. She whips her own hands on her apron, smiling. The lines around her mouth are deep – she smiles often.

“Lunch is in the kitchen. Go and hurry before it gets cold, dear.” She says, kissing the top of my head.

Gran walks up the stairs, presumably to go and get my father to join us. He’s spending more and more time in his room and the study, only coming out for meals and the bathroom. Gran tries to make him come out more, but Dad shrugs her off. He told her that he was working on a new work project. Gran had moaned when she was washing the dishes, me drying them by her side, after dinner – meatloaf with mashed, cooked cauliflower, mixed with carrots.

“-didn’t even tell me what the project was about! Just shut the door in my face! How rude!” she said, passing me a plate. I just shrugged, whipping clean the plate.

“You know how he gets Gran, you shouldn’t be too surprised.”

“I know dear, I know. I just wish he be less secretive – he’s not working with the government for God’s sake!” She sighed, wringing her hands dry. “But enough of that, how about some pudding?”

In the kitchen, lunch is sitting on top of the counter island. Vegetable soup and handmade bread. All made by Gran herself. She and Dad like to make things - bake, craft, all of that. Gran says it’s good for the body and the soul, after all, homemade equals love. 

I sit down, being careful to not spread paint onto the dark wooden stools. Most of the objects in the house are covered in paint. The oldest mark is a small yellow handprint by the bottom of the vibrant red front door. Dad said I made that, when he was painting the door, said I’d tried to help him. I don’t remember much when I was younger, they’re like flashes, muffled voices. The most I remember is Mom, but even then, she’s just a blank face – no lips, no eyes, no nose. She had ginger hair, Gran told me. Nobody talks about her in the house, even though it’s been years since she’d left, walked out one day without any notice. There aren’t any photos of her either. I think Dad has them, locked away. 

I pull one of the bowls of soup towards me, cutting off my slice of bread with the bread knife. The telephone starts to ring, muffed as it comes from upstairs. It stops after a couple of seconds, likely being picked up. I turn my eyes up to the crappy TV playing in the upper corner of the room, the volume low. It turned on the news, mindless stories about some dumb celebrity doing something dumb. That’s what’s everyone wants to hear today, what other people are doing. 

Upstairs there’s a thud. Only Dad and Gran would be upstairs, so maybe someone fell? It would probably be Gran. She was getting old, moaning every day about the pain. I hear the sound of a car driving outside as there’s another thud. And then another. I get up, the stool scraping against the tiled floor, (Gran would give me a firm stare if she was here) walking out of the kitchen and back out in the living room, towards the stairs. I stop in my tracks at the base of the stairs as a large wail comes flooding down, sounding full of pain. 

A body suddenly comes tumbling down the stairs, stopping as they collide with the wall. 

My grandmother. 

She groans with pain, gasping with pain, her face bloody. She looks at me, eyes filled with tears.

“Go … go, run- “

Dad comes hurling down the stairs, the front of his blue shirt drenched in blood. I looked to him, my whole body trembling in shock, but my father just focuses on my grandmother. He grabs her, hoisting her up into the air with surprising strength like she weighed nothing. Something glints in his hand – a small switchblade. He plunges it into my grandmother’s stomach, ripping it downwards in one fluid motion, my grandmother screaming in pain. He pulls the switchblade back out of her, blood gushing out from Gran as she gurgles, opening the door, chucking her outside. Like some piece of rubbish.

My feet move backwards slowly as Dad turns to look at me. He’s breathing hard, a crazed look in her eyes as he looks at me. Then he starts to march towards me. My feet now stumble around the furniture of the house – the sofa, armchairs, coffee table, even stumbling into the doors, Dad pursuing me like some kind of bloodthirsty monster.  
Desperate, I turn into the kitchen, vaguely hearing the front door being forced open. Dad grabs onto the back of my grey hoodie, pulling me towards him as I scream. He flips me around as he snakes an arm around my middle despite my hands scrambling against his bare arms, my fingernails digging into his flesh, holding me in place, his other hand settling around my neck. I sob now, tears running down my face as he presses the bloody blade to the side of my neck, the coldness of it stark against the warmness of my skin. 

“I’m sorry, I’m going to make it all go away ok?” he whispers, right into my ear, his breath hot and clammy. I sob even more as the knife presses harder into the flesh of my neck. I can feel something wet and warm run down my neck. “Make it all go away so you don’t have to suffer, no more suffering anymore …”

“Please Dad, please don’t! Dad, please no!” I cry out, as my father starts to hum over the sound of my sobbing. 

“Stanley Scott Jacobs! FBI!” someone calls out, my father stiffing behind me. A man comes into the kitchen, a gun raised, swaying a little. Red stains the yellow shirt he wears, the colours clashing against each other.

The knife suddenly rips into my skin, my father loosening his grip on me. I can hear the gun go off, but it sounds like it’s underwater, the searing hot pain tearing into my neck, the only thing I can feel. I fall to the floor, landing on my back as I watch my father stumble. He regains his balance, raising the knife again, aimed for me, but the gun goes off again, and he stumbles back again. And again. And again, bullets hitting him each time.

He falls to the tiled floor, blood stepping out from the multiple bullet wounds. Someone knees beside me, wrapping a shaking hand around my neck.

It hurts. It’s unbearable pain, like red hot fire centered on my neck. I want to claw at it, make it stop hurting but my hands lay by my side, motionless. I gag on oxygen, not able to get enough even when I open my mouth wide.

I don’t want to die.

I tear my eyes from my father who stares at me with dead eyes, instead looking up to the man. His face is bloodstained, blood splattered onto his glasses like the vibrant paint I was using moments before. His mouth opens and closes, wide and then small, gasping for breath, I think. I can feel his hand around my neck, keeping me alive for now.   
Someone else knees down but it’s burly around the edges of my vision. I don’t know what I’m doing but I feel one of my hands lifting upwards and placing it on something warm. The man shakes less, looking confused, but my head suddenly feels heavy. I feel my throat closing, cutting myself of more air. I think I was beginning to choke, but I’m not so sure. One second, I’m not breathing and then the next second, I’m breathing. It’s sudden – like being plunged into cold water.

Black spots cloud my vision as I’m lifted me, softness cradling my back. I feel myself moving, looking up to different skies each time. A beige sky and then a brown one and then a blue one.

I close my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Coming back to consciousness after remaining mired in that deep smothering darkness for so long is very much like drowning in reverse. Oddly enough, it’s cold first. In my toes and fingertips, the clammy, slick kind because it’s accompanied with sweat. My limbs tingle with numbness like just before slipping into sleep, my mind still aware enough to recognize it. The next is the pain, and this is more expected. I can’t remember why it would be at the moment, but then my mind dimly recognizes that I’ve been asleep a very long time. My left shoulder and my neck aches even without the aggravation of movement, stinging when I shift. There’s bright light beaming down on my eyes like a spotlight, blinding me as I squeeze my eyes. There’s dull burn as something is pulled from my throat, slick from saliva but no less uncomfortable in its retrieval. I choke and gag dryly as my eyelids flutter open, now free of the light burning into my eyes.

Someone’s hand is pressing against my right shoulder, gentle but persistent all the same, and I now realize that I’ve been attempting to sit up in a panic. The world is a garbled mess of noises around me like my head is underwater. An indistinguishable rush and hum of voices, a vague shuffling, a high consistent note too piercing, and the soothing thrush of waves. My eyes adjust to the light. Everything around me is pristine and crisp, from the pastel floral curtains to the white linen sheets tucked around my body, to the bustling nurses in their powder blue scrubs. I focus on the one next to me. The woman has light blonde cropped short just beneath her chin, and eyes nearly the same shade of ice, her hands are steady but quick as she taps at an IV and discards a long plastic tube that looks vaguely familiar.

My mouth is dry and tastes vaguely reminiscent of copper like I’ve had a penny on my tongue while I slept. My eyes water with pain when I attempt to sit up again, my shoulder protesting noticeably at the movement. I take in a breath through my nose, smelling antiseptic. Bleach and alcohol with the obtrusive fragrance of artificial lemons.

A hospital.

The nurses are speaking again, this time directly to me.

“Miss Jacobs,” she says. “You must calm down, just take deep breaths. Follow my lead.”

Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale.  
The consistent beep of a heart rate monitor tells my brain that I’m alive, that my body is finally deciding now to start to calm down. The nurse smiles reassuringly as I sag against thin pillows, the tension ebbing from my shoulders.

“Where am I?” I manage to stutter out, my vocal chords protesting. The nurse hands me a plastic cup of water. The liquid is somehow warmer than the room itself, but it’s like drinking from the Holy Grail. I manage to raise the cup to my lip in spite of my shaking hands as the nurse talks.

“Baltimore Psychiatric Facility. We’re going to call Doctor Bloom. Try to rest, Miss Jacobs.”

“My father…is he still…?”

  
The nurse doesn’t meet my eyes as she walks out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.

 

 

 

The door to the has been left open a crack, a single lamp left on, the rest turned off in exchange for the natural sunlight filtering through the clean windows. My room is in the second hallway, four doors down from the nurse’s station, on the right. From outside, heels click confidently against the shiny linoleum tiles, the bags rustling when they brush against something. The butterfly-patterned nightdress I wear matches the pale blue-green bed linen, furniture, and patterned wallpaper, making me almost blend into the room itself. A magazine rests forgotten on my lap, hands clasped over an article concerning a celebrity couple.

“Hello, Rachel.”

My blue-eyed gaze strays from the sunny view outside to the newcomer. Whips of my dark brown hair escape from the loose ponytail I’d had managed to scope into place, with the help from the nurses.

The newcomer, Alana Bloom I can only think of, stands in the doorway, multiple bags gathering in her hands. I close the magazine and set it on the table nearby, as Alana smiles in a friendly manner. I’ve only been awake a day, but the monitoring equipment has already been cleared out, replaced by more chairs.

“Hello.” I whisper, trying not to shrink into the covers as Alana Bloom moves closer, sitting down on one of the many chairs, settling the bags next to the bed.

“My name is Alana Bloom. I’m a psychiatrist.”

My gaze flicks over Alana’s face for a moment and inevitably falls to the array of colourful bags down on the floor. I swallow before speaking again, hands twitching like startled animals, but I manage to meet Alana’s eyes this time.

“What kind of psychiatrist?” I ask.

“I specialize in family trauma.”

My eyes drop again, this time landing somewhere around the top of Alana’s boots. My body shifts with discomfort. I can practically feel the shame shadowing my tired, pale face. I’ve been too exhausted for nightmares, but sleep doesn't come easy and I’m haunted, nonetheless.

“You came to talk about my father.” I mumble out, wincing at the word.

“If you want,” she replies, “Or we can talk about something else. Whatever you want.”

I faintly nod with the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth, as my eyes glitter with unshed tears, my voice trembling as I speak.

“Thank you. I don’t want to talk about … that just yet …”

Alana smiles in understanding it seems and doesn’t push, instead crossing her legs over each other, leaning further back into the chair.

“That’s alright. I brought you some things. Clothes, books, music. Anything that doesn’t fit you or you don’t like, just leave the tags on and I’ll return it.”

I glance at the bags again, one hand drifting up to brush a curling strand of hair from my surprised expression.

“You brought me all that?” I ask.

“Yes, I thought you might like something a little more normal,” Alana answers, “I figured the same tabloids might bore you.”

She casts the forsaken magazine an amused look and I smile warmly, sniffling a little. I wipe at my eyes with the back of one hand, the lower lids smudged with dark half-moons when I looked in the mirror earlier.

“Thank you” I whisper.

Alana places her hand gently over mine own, her skin is cool and soft.

“You’re very welcome,” she says.


	3. Chapter 3

Freddie Lounds is very rambunctious without even saying a word. She’s a burst of colour in the otherwise stark room, but she doesn’t bring with her breath of life. She looks practically Disney villainesque in her leopard print dress, a red-lined cape and gloves.

I’m not sure why the hospital staff let her in, but somehow, I imagine it was achieved by some ethically ambiguous method. I shift uncomfortably under Freddie’s sharp, blue gaze.

“So…you’re a journalist?” I ask.

“That’s right,” Freddie replies.

I can’t look her in the eyes, unsure how to respond to someone I’m so uncomfortable with. She reminds me of the shark circling the sinking ship. How are you supposed to run away when you have a captive audience?

“There has been a lot of controversy surrounding you and your family, Rachel,” Freddie continues. “A lot of different stories and theories have been tossed around in the media and the public. I just want to tell the truth—your truth.”

I swallow, feeling a twinge in the healing flesh beneath the clean bandages. A hand thoughtlessly strays to the wound, the stitches still tender from a few days earlier, when I’d popped two of them in my panic waking up.

“You mean what happened.” I reply.

Her expression is appropriately sympathetic—so much so that I know a way it’s artificial as Freddie’s hands settles on the footboard of the bed, nodding.

“There are some people, including some in the FBI, that think you might have … helped your father in some way,” Freddie says.

My chest goes tight and cold, stomach twisting violently. My fingers twitch, curling into the fabric of the bed sheets.

“But—but he tried to kill me. Doesn’t that mean anything?” I whisper, tears gathering in my eyes.

Freddie’s sympathetic expression stays frozen in place as she shakes her head. “You can change what people think. We can change what they think. Together,” Freddie replies.

“C-Can you tell me … about …” I manage to stutter out, Freddie walking over and sitting on the bed, nearer me, a hand on top of mine. I try not to flinch.

“Your dad was the Smiley Face Killer. Your Grandmother wasn't the first person your father killed. He killed eight women in different families. Eight families that were a lot alike to your own, I imagine."

“W-Why would he kill them?"

“He would murder the women of a family if he felt if they damaged it– if the family was not up to his standard and they were to blame. Those women targed looked like you. He was very sick.”

I feel the twist and turn of my stomach, the bile building in my throat. But I exhale, my breath shakily.

“Does that mean I'm sick too?”

“You'll be fighting that perception. Perception is the most important thing in your life right now.” Freddie sighs, her touch burning through my skin.

“How did they catch him?” I ask.

Freddie’s eyes spark unnervingly, and I try not to move or pull away.

“A man named Will Graham. Works for the FBI but isn’t FBI. He catches insane men because he can think like them. Because he is insane. He’s the one that killed your father.” she explains.

The door opens quietly behind her, a familiar face entering with a quiet shuffle of boots along tile. Instantly, I want to be swallowed up by the bed as his eyes, his troubled, memorable blue eyes, fall on the two of us. The tight clench of his jaw attests that he was not spared those last words.

Freddie stands from the bed and turns away and only then can I finally breathe, as Will Graham and Freddie Lounds stand off against each other. I open my mouth to say something but not sure what, exactly, to say. But I want to diffuse the situation, ease the thick tension. So thick, it feels like I’m already drowning in it.

“Speak of the devil,” Freddie says.

“Would you excuse us please?” Will asks, his voice is clipped and flat and overly polite. He turns to look at me. “Special Agent Will Graham.”

“By Special Agent, he means not really an agent. He didn't get past the screening process. Too unstable.” Freddie cuts in, almost like digging a finger into a wound, smirking when Will’s frown deepens.

I swallow again, twisting the sheets in my hand tighter. I reach for the panic button on my right side as both Freddie and Will stare down each other again, only to stop as a third man, one I hadn’t notice before, subtly shakes his head.

“I really must insist you leave the room.” He voices.

“I’m not leaving you alone with her.” Freddie spits.

I hide my anxiety as I clear my throat, loud enough to be heard and all eyes turn to me.

“It’s alright.” I say, my voice quiet.

“Very well,” Freddie replies. “if you ever want to talk …”

The business card she’s about to offer me is snatched up with the quickness of a snake striking prey. Will studies the card, stuffing it viciously in the inside pocket of his jacket after a moment. I’m not sure what to say, so I wait, holding my breath. Freddie tosses a triumphant glance to me, concluding her evidence. See, he’s insane, her victorious little smile says.

The third man closes the door after Freddie and turns back with a small, polite smile, brushing off the incident so quickly it’s almost jarring.

An awkward, tenuous silence settles over the room for a moment.

“This is Doctor Lecter,” Will says finally, “Do you remember us?”

I let my eyes travel over Doctor Lecter, everything about him is neat and tidy and sophisticated, from the top of his head, right down to the gleam of his shoes.

“I remember you,” I reply slowly. “but…I’m sorry, I don’t remember you, Doctor Lecter.”

Doctor Lecter approaches the bed languidly, each step as graceful as it is careful, like approaching a startled animal. I don’t shift to move away as I’d done with Freddie Lounds.

“That’s quite alright. You were already unconscious when I arrived,” he explains. “We visited you, while you were in your coma,” he adds.

I glance up then, eyes bouncing back and forth between the two as Will moves closer, on the same side as Doctor Lecter. The nurses never mentioned that.

The term “coma” makes me uncomfortable.

“Was Freddie telling the truth—about my father, I mean? Do people really think I could have helped him?” I ask.

My voice is small in the already tiny room, a scared animal to be coaxed out.

When I was young, I used to fear the monsters that hid in the dark, at night time, but now I know better. I know that the real monsters are flesh and bone that parade around in human skins, reveling in the gruesome horror of daylight.

“Perhaps,” Doctor Lecter answers. “The FBI is investigating the possibility, but there hasn’t been any evidence.”

A wave of frustration and disappointment washes through me. The FBI won’t find anything, of course. I hadn’t known about my father’s activities until the moment he’d held a blade to my throat. Even then, they’ll still prod and poke.

“We don’t believe you had anything to do with it,” Will says, his voice vaguely filtering through my ears like I’m deep underwater again. “but the FBI is just being thorough. Or paranoid. Choose an adjective you like.”

I look down at my shaking hands, only now aware of the scrapes from my nails made on them. Faint red lines, traveling small, short lines across the warm flesh.

Doctor Lecter clears his throat.

“You’ve been in bed for three weeks, Rachel. Why don’t we go for a walk?” he suggests.


	4. Chapter 4

I haven’t had much time to become reacquainted with using my legs. I can walk to and from the bathroom, but that’s hardly more than a few feet. Showers don’t really count either since the nurses urge me to sit to keep my injured shoulder and neck dry.

When I got out of the bed, my legs shake and I stumble like a new-born fawn over my own feet, somehow managing to stand up. Long enough to dress in the clothes that Alana had brought, to walk along the hallways, out into the gardens.

An orderly holds the door for us to walk into the garden. I offer up a small, appreciative smile as we pass. The air outside is crisp and cool and I breathe in the earthy scent of vegetation with relish. My legs still feel oddly detached, even as I grow used to the sensation of walking again. We travel a little way, mostly in silence. My mind wanders to Freddie Lounds and how quickly she tried to alienate me from Will.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “about what Freddie Lounds said.”

My eyes are too focused on the veins of cracks in the cement to take any note of Will and Doctor Lecter.

“It’s not your fault. That woman likes to spread lies for publicity,” Will replies. “She only does something if she thinks she’ll get something out of it.”

It makes sense. Writing a book about a serial killer from the daughter’s perspective would be a fantastic bullet point to add to any resume. The money, the fame, the prestige—I’m surprised others haven’t already approached me with offers.

“She is dangerous,” Doctor Lecter adds. “it would be best to keep your distance from her when you can.”

I don’t notice myself deflating until Doctor Lecter is gently guiding me to sit on a nearby bench. I stare down at my lap with a sigh and nod in understanding. If I can avoid Freddie Lounds, I’ll more than happy to.

“She told me … about him … what he did …” I look up to them. “Why would he even do it? He was loving right up until the second he wasn't. Kept saying was gonna make it all go away.”

Will sits down on the bench next to me, angled so that we are facing each other.

“There was plenty wrong with your father, Rachel. But there's nothing wrong with you. You say he was loving. I believe it. That's what you brought out in him.” He says, his expression far away.

I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself. “It's not all I brought out in him.”

They both turn to look at me, waiting. I shake my head. “I'm gonna be messed up. Aren't I? I'm worried about nightmares.”

“We'll help you with the nightmares.” Doctor Lecter says.

“There's no such thing as getting used to what you experienced. It bothers me a lot. I worry about nightmares too.” Will speaks up, as I turn to look at him.  
The numbness of shock has been wearing away ever since I’ve woke up, everyone around commending me on how well I remember the events preceding my coma. But something nags at the back of my mind, like it was tugging hard at my skin.

“Your hands were shaking when you held the gun,” I say. “After he cut me…I remember looking up and seeing you, your eyes. You were so scared, more than me. You were trying so hard to save me, I remember thinking that I wanted to comfort you somehow, in case I didn’t make it. And then I blacked out.”

A sad smile pulls at his mouth. “You must not remember then.” he murmurs.

I cock my head a little, my brows furrowing in question.

“Right before you passed out you reached up and touched my hand. I couldn’t understand why until now.” he explains.

His hand turns over and takes mine, the other settling gently over top. His skin is warm, much warmer than I was expecting with the temperature what it is, and rough with calluses.

“I’m struggling with what to feel about him, but … but I know that he had to be stopped,” I keep my eyes downcast. “Killing somebody, even if you have to do it, it feels that bad?”

“It's the ugliest thing in the world.” Will answers after a moment through a shaky exhale. Doctor Lecter cocks his head at Will words, but his facial expression remains stoic.

I let my own exhale out, Will’s hand on my bringing me out of my thoughts. There’s only one place I can return to now.

“I wanna go home.”


	5. Chapter 5

The house is a normal two-story structure, with a sloping roof and a raised front porch. The outside walls had been painted an unassuming shade of white since I was born, the front door bleeding vibrant red. The lawn, that had been previously well kept, had become a tangled mess of litter and weeds, the flower beds of marigolds surprising kept clean. My Grandmother planted those.

‘Psychos’ and a smiley face has been spray painted in black across the garage door and the darkened windows, all in bold.

I stare at the graffiti, my brows furrowed as Will parks the car by the curb across the house.

“Rachel, you don’t have to do this,” he says. “we can still go back.”

Somehow, I tear my eyes away from the house to meet his eyes in the mirror, a tremble begging in my hands. In the mirror, my eyes look far too big and open to sit properly on my face. I steel myself, grounding myself back into the car and not in my mind, breathing sharply through my nose, biting my lips.

“I … I want to do this.” I shutter out.

Will nods, the car that Alana had been driving in stopping behind us.

“We’ll be right there, beside you, Rachel. When you’ve had enough, we’ll leave, any time you feel like it’s too much.” Hannibal says, from his seat next to Will in the front of the car.

“Thank you, Doctor Lector.” I murmur, relaxing in my seat.

 “You may call me Hannibal, if you like,” he says, offers me a reassuring smile.

I stare out of the window, back to the house. It’s almost as if my father is waiting, back in the kitchen, waiting to kill me again. But Will and Hannibal are with me this time. He can’t hurt me this time.

“Okay, I think…I think I can…”

I unbuckle my seatbelt, opening the car door as Will and Hannibal does so, Alana from behind us doing the same, the car doors slamming close. Alana joins us, Hannibal circling around the front of the car. Will and Hannibal flank me up the front, Alana behind me. The healed cut on my neck strings with sudden pain. I resist the urge to scrape at it.

Will tears the yellow tape down and nudges the front door open but I stare down at the floor, just a few meters away from the door. Deep red stains the cement floor, out of place.

“This is where my Grandmother died?”

Will steps in front of me, staring down at floor along with me. “Yes.”

I shudder. “I was sort of expecting a body outline in chalk or tape. Or something like that.”

“They only do that if you're still alive and taken to the hospital before they finish the crime scene.”

“Goodbye, Gran. I’m sorry.”

I brush the tears from my eyes, focusing on the open door instead. I take a couple of shaky steps forward into the blackened corridor, wrapping my arms around myself as coldness hits at me.

“It’s so cold.”

The entryway exhibits pictures of my childhood up until now. Awards for art, good behavior, science projects, swimming competitions. Photos of myself, my Grandmother and Dad hang from the walls.

For a serial killer, is unexpected how much he cared.

“The heating has been turned off.” Will explains.

“It was always warm.” I say, frowning as I eye the pictures. It’s like he’s a different person in them.

I turn, taking my time in walking through the living room and towards the kitchen. ‘Humanity drawn to its own death and destruction’, one of many Greek philosophers once said, I remember reading once. I stop at the edge of a rusty brown mark that seeped through the titled floor, unable to tear my eyes away.

“This is where I …?” I ask.

“Yes.” Will answers.

This is where I fell.

Where I bled.

Where he saved me.

I turn slightly, considering a similar stain a few scant feet away. My fingers twitch at my side.

“That’s where he died?”

These words are somehow easier for me to say. Alana shifts closer to my side and Will glances at Hannibal, then back to me.

“Yes.”

I’ve never known myself to be so silent. As silent as the house right now.

Will inserts himself at my side before I’ve even moved. I retreat backwards, unsteady, and almost trips over my own feet. He catches me, supporting my body with an arm around my shoulders. I go still, drinking in a slow, deep breath. I press into his side, uncertain and distrustful of what to do and where to go.

When I inhale once more and let it out in a slow gust, Will slowly let me go, his arms lingering on my arms. A moment later, I glance up at him with a small, appreciative smile.

“Rachel …” Alana says, and I turn to look at her, Hannibal by her side.

“Do you know where your father might have kept any … remains of his victims?” she asks.

I blink, mouthing the words under my breath as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue, my mind turning and twisting. I glance back up at Will for translation, my shoulders tensing.

“There was skin, hair, nails, and teeth missing on each of his victims,” Will explains. “The FBI was hoping you might know what your father did with them.”

I huddle closer to Will, his arm tightening around my shoulder, minding her shoulder.

“I don’t ... I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t even — can’t …” I say.

Will rubs his thumbs in soothing circles over my arms through my blue coat.

“It’s alright. We didn’t really expect you to know anyway,” Alana replies, and I nod, feeling my shoulders relax.

“Can … Can I go and get s-some of my stuff … my clothes …” I shudder, glancing to the stairs.

Alana smiles. “Of course. Do you need any help?”

I shake my head and slowly remove myself from Will’s grip. “I’ll … I’ll be fine. I’ll get a bag upstairs.”

“Be careful, there’s evidence up there, okay.”

 

My [room](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/41/81/da/4181da2b5151780a2317bfa5ef28a1d0.jpg) is second on the right, my Grandmother’s bedroom next door to me, the bathroom across. I open the door, carefully tiptoeing around the boxes labeled as evidence. My [room](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c0/35/64/c035642337b26d7394e918556565e315.jpg) is exactly how I left it. Neat and tidy, aside from my desk. The walls are painted a pale orange peach colour, the floorboard deep brown, a pink and purple braided rug made by my Grandmother laying on the floor. The windows in the [room](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e8/a8/16/e8a816b31455c68e07e77404ecbade08.jpg) have the white cotton curtains with flowers hand-switched, drawn closed. My bed is unmade, the turquoise butterflies patchwork bed covers left in a bundle. The pink lamp on my bedside table has been switched off, the cordless landline phone switched off. The posters I had stuck on the walls are still there, the smaller photos of me, Gran and Dad stuck alongside. 

My paint splatted desk draws my attention away from the photos. The paints and paintbrushes are there, harden over from the lack of use and proper care. My school books lay on the floor next to my desk forgotten. My sketchbook lays open on my desk, untouched. 

I reach up to the top of my white wardrobe, pulling down the sports bag I used for swimming practice, placing it down on my bed. I pull open the doors of the wardrobe and drawers of the dresser, collecting my clothes in no order, piling them into the bag. Underwear, socks, jeans, tops, jackets, shoes. Once most of my clothes are in the bag, I look around the room, only now aware I might never see it again. I pick up one out of the two photo frames on my bedside table, my breath suddenly hitching in my throat.

It’s me and Gran, at one of my piano concerts. I’m holding up a certificate, Gran smiling proudly next to me. I place it carefully in my bag, my hands shaking. The other photo frame, the one of me and my father, hugging each other, is shoved into the bedside table drawer. As I open the door, I shove my sketchbook inside with some of my pencils, zipping the bag closed as the door shuts.

 

Boxes are circled around Will, Hannibal, and Alana as I climb back down the stairs, dropping my bag next to me. Some of the lids are already of some of the boxes, objects of the house inside them. Alana looks up, smiling.

“Rachel. You got everything you need?” she asks. I nod my head, sitting down alongside her, keeping my shaking hands in my lap.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Evidence collected from the house. We were wondering if you knew anything else we might have missed.”

I shake my head, twisting my fingers together, my mind murky and muddy. “No … no … he was a perfectionist. The house was always clean, no matter what. He made everything from scratch, like food or the furniture.”

I shake my head, like a deer caught in headlights “Is that why you let me come home? To find evidence?”

“It was one of many considerations.” Hannibal voices.

I manage a shaky nod, keeping my head down. The doorbell rings, the silence of the room breaking. Alana gets up, leaving my side as Will takes her place, centimeters apart. He rubs a hand on my back, small, soft circles.

“Rachel, there's someone here.” Alana calls, her boots clicking along the floor. I look up as she enters the room, someone beside her.

“Hey, Rachel.”

Nora stands next to Alan, her black hair cut into a bob rather than the long hair she had last time I saw her.

“Nora!” I rush up to her, hugging her as she hugs me back.

“I’m so glad you’re okay! More or less…” Nora says as she pulls away, brow furrowing at Will, Alana, and Hannibal behind me.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

“I’m visiting Dad …I was just on my way out when I saw you get out of the car.” She explains.

I turn to look at the adults. “Is it alright if we go out back?” I ask.

Both Will and Alana pull faces, the latter’s more hidden, but Hannibal speaks before they can.

“We’ll be right here,” he says.

I smile and follows Nora through the backdoor from the kitchen, disappearing down the hill, towards the woods.

 

I’ve been cold ever since I’ve got out of the car. Even the house, deserted in all human life, is warmer than me. Outside, it bits at my arms and face, making me keep my arms wrapped tightly around my middle as both me and Nora walk through the golden leaves, kicking them out of the way. The backyard has been spared the treatment of the front of the house, at least.

After school, when Nora used to live with both of her parents, she would come around. We would go out into the back garden, along with my sketchbook, Nora picking random things for me to sketch. When she was bored, which she often was, she would throw the leaves at me, burring me in them.

“So, uh, does that hurt? Where he, um ...” Nora asks as we come to a stop, looking over the small stream that divides the backyard and the woods.

“Sometimes, I guess.” I shrug.

Nora frowns in sympathy and pats my forearm. “You should have seen the news. They were swarming the place. Dad said it was crazy.” Nora says.

I’m almost grateful that I was unconscious for that, in all honesty. I’m not sure how I could have handled listening to people talk about my family. What they would have said about my Father and Grandmother.

About me.

“I’m not exactly surprised.” I reply.

Nora nods, a small frown on her face.

“There were all sorts of people that were suddenly your best friend in high school and who came over all the time,” she adds. “Do you remember Caroline Lettie?”

I nod without hesitation. How could she forget? In middle school and the early years of high school, Caroline Lettie was very much the stereotypical bully, emulating rich, popular girls from TV. While she dulled out in later years, she still liked to mock anyone that wasn’t like her.

“I guess she still works at her Mom’s Boutique, and she had a whole lot to say about you,” Nora continues. “I punched her in the face when I saw her the other day. Her face nearly broke two of my fingers.”

My mouth drops open in horror, but after a second my lips unexpectedly curl up with delight. “You punched Caroline Lettie in the face? Nora, you could have been charged with assault or something!”

Nora shrugs, proudly brandishing the dusting of bruises on her knuckles.

“She hasn’t pressed charges and I doubt she will. She should have seen it coming,” she replies.

“You didn’t have to do that on my behalf,” I say, reaching across to squeeze her hand. “though, I appreciate it.”

“Well, she deserved it for encouraging those rumors that you helped him.”

The smile drops from my face and I turn to look at the damp earth beneath my boots.

“I didn’t help him.” I whisper.

Nora squeezes my arm gently.

“I know. I believe you,” she replies.

“I don’t.”

I jump in my spot, Nora instantly standing in front of me. At the very bottom of the hill, a man is emerging from the border of trees that act as a natural property line. He stops once he’s clear of the forest boundary, close enough that I can see dark smudges under eyes that glint with a desperate sort of craze that he had before.

“This is private property!” Nora yells, picking up a rock in her hand.

“You were the bait, right? That's how it worked?” the man accuses, spiting at me. “Talked to them, learned about them, right? Or did you help him too? Did you help him arrange the bodies? Draw those smiley faces on them?”

The more he speaks, the angrier he gets. White-hot panic claws up my throat as the man takes a step closer. I latch onto Nora's arm and jerks her up towards the hill.

“Did you help your old man cut out my sister's lungs while she was still using - “

Nora raises her hand and throws the rock, hitting the man spot on his head. The man stumbles, looking up at us with fury and then takes a step forward, spitting on the ground.

“Will!” I scream. “Hannibal!”

I grip onto Nora’s sleeve of her coat, not releasing her as we scramble up the hill. Has it always been this steep? I can hear the man’s steps behind me and when I look back, the man is just in reach to grab at me, a savage, violent snarl on his face. Nora turns around, kicking the man right in his crotch. The man grunts and falls, Nora holding onto my arm, dragging me back up the hill, affording us a few precious more moments to escape.

Hannibal and Will rush from the house, the latter already reaching for the gun strapped to his hip. Relief bursts in my chest, makes the panic and fear fade for a moment as both I and Nora sprint to them, to safety.

“Will! Hannibal!”

Will situates himself between me and Nora and our pursuer, I don’t stop running until I’ve very nearly collided with Hannibal. He calmly collects me in his arms as I quake and pants, hands clenching in his shirt and likely wrinkling the expensive fabric.

“You’re alright. We’ll keep you safe.” he murmurs.

I try to glance behind me, Nora by my side looking down, but Hannibal doesn’t allow me to move, instead forces me to focus on her shoulder, where the stitches are. He begins feeling around the area. Now that I’m safe, an ache has settled where the stitches are. I hiss quietly at his prodding but don’t dare stop him.

“I don’t believe you’ve pulled your stitches,” he says. “Are you otherwise unharmed?”

I nod, clutching onto his jacket. The sound of footsteps reaches my ears and this time Hannibal lets me see. Will is approaching, shaking his head and holstering his gun again. I assume this means the man got away.

“Are you two alright?” he asks.

Will stations himself at mine and Hannibal’s sides, running a hand up and down my back soothingly. I manage to nod, glancing at Nora worriedly. Her confirmation is just as shaky, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

Did you recognize him?”

I see Nora shake her head.

“Did he say anything?” Hannibal asks.

My mouth has gone dry as the desert, but Nora finds her voice and speaks.

“He thinks she helped her father. He was talking about his sister and smiley faces, or something like that.” she explains.

I shift, looking up at Hannibal and then at Will.

“What—what did he mean?” I stumble over my words. “H-He said I learned about them. What did he mean?”

Will visibly tenses. I don’t think he’s going to answer at all until he opens his mouth, an explanation on the tip of his tongue. The thrush and crunch of leaves underfoot interrupts him, our eyes all turning to behold Caroline Lettie stalking up from the side of the house, dressed from head to toe in differing shades of pink.

It’s really not terribly surprising that she’d be aware of my presence, considering how much she knows about anything. With all their screaming, it’s no surprise that she came to investigate.

She’s got a badly concealed black eye and I can’t help but fixate on the mottled skin with a renewed admiration for Nora.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nora snarls.

“Unbelievable,” Caroline scoffs. “that you’d actually show your face here again, after everything. And you just brought more of the crazy with you, bitch.”

Will stiffens and I can’t help but think of Freddie Lounds and her cruel words.

This expedition has turned into a disaster.

I wilt against Hannibal, my shoulders slumping.

I don’t want Caroline near me, shouting all those accusations that I’ve been desperately trying to avoid. I don’t want Nora getting involved, getting infected with this madness. I don’t want to keep putting Will and Hannibal in these situations where they have to save me again.

“The only crazy one here is you,” Nora snaps. “Go away!”

“Nora,” I say. “it’s alright. I should probably head back soon anyway.”

Nora hesitates a moment, but reluctantly nods, clasping her hand with mine.

“Call me, okay?” she says.

I manage to nod, mustering up a ghost of a smile and squeeze Nora’s hand. I don’t have a phone, but I’m sure I can find some way to communicate.

“I’ll try.” I reply.

Nora casts one last scalding glance at Caroline before walking away with a parting wave over her shoulder to Hannibal and Will.

Hannibal places his hand on my back, gentle but firm, and nudges me towards the house.

“Shall we go inside? I think you’ve had enough for today,” he says.

I nod, tucking into his side, and winces when Caroline makes a comment about killers returning to the scenes of their crimes.

“What about her?” I ask.

Will and Hannibal exchange glances over my head. There’s a brief pause before the latter replies.

“I’ll deal with her. Will take you back up to the house. Excuse me for a moment.”

My shoulders drop with a helpless sort of relief that I have permission to avoid Caroline Lettie and her accusations for now. Will inserts himself in the space Hannibal just occupied before the shivering can begin again, his arm around my shoulders as before, Hannibal withdrawing from me, sauntering back the way we just came, cool as the autumn breeze.

Caroline hurls another insult as we walk the rest of the way up the hill, to the back porch. Will’s expression pinches with poorly concealed aggravation as he casts a surreptitious look over his shoulder. He sighs.

“Hannibal is better with people than I am, he’ll take care of it,” he explains. “You should know that he and I will protect you, Rachel, in whatever way we can.”

I nod, allowing Will to guide me through the kitchen door. Alana meets us in the doorway to the living room, worried and grim.

“What happened? I heard screaming…”

Will recounts the story, vaguely, while I sink into a nearby armchair, drowning within myself. Later, Will guides me back to the front porch, the both of us sitting on the on the porch steps, Alana inside, waiting to speak to Hannibal.

I rest my head on Will’s shoulder, suddenly sleepy, and breath in the scent of his old coat. He smells like dogs and the outdoors. Silence settles over us for a little while before my mouth starts to speak.

“What did that man mean?”

Will sighs a little, resigned.

“The murders had smiley faces painted on their faces, in their blood, along with some of their teeth, nails, skin, and hair missing, depending on who. Your father got close to them, became their friends."

I absorb this information in another beat of silence, my mind reeling. I don’t have faces for the victims, but I hardly need them as my imagination translates into realism. My stomach clenches.

“They called him the Smiley Face Killer, then?” I say.

We both look to the spray-paint graffiti and Will grimaces.

“Yes, among other alliterations. They’re …distasteful, to say the least. They lack imagination—as awful as I’m sure that sounds.”

In the silence, my brain is more interested in my father’s fixation of his murders, my mind whirling and crashing like violent waves of information. The main door to the study was always locked, the only other way to enter was through my father’s room. I was only ever allowed in there if he was there, never on my own. Never on mine own …

I jolt upright so quickly, my head very nearly knocks into Will’s chin.

It’s the quickest I’ve moved in weeks. My head spins. The world tilts.

“I think I know what he did with the remains.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

The moment after my sudden epiphany is sharp and quick, a cut to another scene in a movie. Will catches me as I partially flop forwards, before my head can collide with the solid concrete steps. I slouch into him as he rummages in his pocket for his phone.

I don’t register much of the conversation that follows. The words rush around in my ears, the world seems loud and fast - I can’t make out anything distinct other than the rushing wind sounds suck in my ears. Will, I think, is speaking, and he might even be arguing, but about what is beyond me.

I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of my father’s madness now and I can’t climb back up and the images swimming in front of my eyes more than imagination right now. A crimson curtain trickles down over my eyes, blotched with black, and only when I feel a sturdy hand on my shoulder, do I realize it’s because I’m hyperventilating.

“Rachel, look at me.”

With difficulty, I force my eyes to focus on a calm, collected Hannibal. He’s kneeling on the porch step in front of me, waiting patiently for me attention.

“You’re alright. Just breathe.”

Slowly, the panic ebbs and I swallow back the fear. Whether I’m correct or not about the purpose of the missing skin, teeth, nails, and hair, my father can’t hurt me or anyone else anymore. He’s dead.

I repeat it as a mantra. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.

Why is that so comforting?

At some point, Will shrugged off his jacket and placed it around my shoulders. The warmth of his body lingers in the material, made soft from continual wash and wear. I curl my fingers in the edges and tugs it closer around me, as if I could disappear inside the cotton and polyester.

When I feel less like a pit is going to open and swallow me whole, I inhale quietly.

“I think I’ve had enough for the day.” I say quietly, watching as something that might be amusement plays in Hannibal’s eyes for a moment.

“I have to agree with you. Do you feel well enough to stand?” he asks.

 I nod even though I’m uncertain and accept Will’s help to stand. My legs feel like the bones have been liquefied but I manage to get down the porch steps with a little help and into the backseat of the car.

Will doesn’t ask for his jacket back and I don’t offer to back as I tuck myself into the backseat. My head tilts back against the headrest as we pull smoothly away, back into the street. I watch my house slip away numbly.

In the back of my mind, I remember that Alana had been there, and I didn’t even say goodbye. The guilt bubbles in the back of my mind as I try to ignore the bile in the back of my throat.

“Rachel, it’ll be a little while before we reach the hospital. You should try to rest.” Will says.

I sigh and bury myself deeper into the seat as much as I can, wanting to be absorbed into it.

“I had nightmares last night,” I reply. “I don’t want to have another.”

Will glances at me in the rear-view window. At first, I think I see sympathy—or worse pity. I don’t want to be poked at and quantified and recorded, like the nurses at the hospital do so.

Then, what I see in Will’s eyes is different. It is empathy; it is kindred. He has nightmares too.

“Try,” Hannibal suggests. “Even if you are afraid, facing your dreams is the first step to conquering them. Will and I will be here to wake you if you become distressed.”

I try to offer up the closest thing to a smile, pulling the sleeves of the coat over my frigid fingers, trying to trap in as much heat as I can.

“I feel like I’m always distressed.” I say.

“You’ve been through a lot, Rachel. It’s only natural.”

I nod and rest my head against the seat again, eyes fluttering closed. It helps knowing Will and Hannibal are there. They saved me once—surely, they can save me again.

 

I accidentally kept Will’s jacket the night before, but seeing as how he brought another one today, I’ve decided to commandeer it again to brace against the cold.

Jack Crawford is waiting for us with a small battalion of FBI agents. He is unexpectedly expected. As I imagined him, he is exactly as stoic and imposing and that’s exactly what I see guarding the front walk to the house. His hands are buried deep in his coat pockets as he eyes my approach, sandwiched between Hannibal and Will, Alana walking behind us.

“Miss Jacobs, I’m Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioural Science Unit at the FBI.” He introduces.

 Will explained they usually wouldn’t involve me in finding the evidence directly, but they already searched the house top to bottom. For the sake of time, effort, and money, they’ll let me retrieve the remains for them—if I’m even right, that is.

That seems almost as frightening a prospect as finding them at all.

“Are you ready, Miss Jacobs?” Crawford asks.

I nod and brace myself as we begin past the lab workers, each of them parting for us with thinly-veiled expressions. I pretend I can’t hear the whispering. 

I lead them up the stairs, past my Grandmother’s door and the toilet room, stopping in front of my father’s room. Slowly, I push it open, the door creaking. My [father’s room](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a6/fb/99/a6fb99a74c4e2917232f91bb80873461.jpg) is in his normal mess – his bed un-made, dirty clothes piled in the corner of the room, some even thrown onto the exercise bike. The TV on the dresser opposite the bed is shut off, the evening sky making the room seem darker then it is. I turn the light on, walking over to the door just next to me. Thankfully - or not - it’s been left unlocked.

We all pile inside. It’s a small box room, which makes the smell of something rotting stronger. There’s a small desk with used to have a laptop on it with a table lamp, shelves of blinders on the walls, photos of me and Gran alongside them. One photo frame sits on the desk, me and Gran laughing as we pose on the beach.

“We searched this room,” Jack Crawford says, his voice loud within the small room. “We found nothing.”

The desk had drawers in it, three of them. I pull the middle one out, only documents and pens inside. Then I lift the bottom of the drawer up and out, kneeling as I set the fake bottom down. A dark wooden shoe-like box sits inside. With shaking hands, I pull it out. Will kneels on the floor beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. I glance at him but give over the box, watching as he lifts the lid off the box. Inside are trinkets, normal everyday things. A bracelet I once made him, when I was younger, photos of him as a child, movie tickets from the movies we attended together.

Will picks up a photo, a smiling woman with ginger hair staring back at me.

“Do you know who this is?”

My heart beats faster. “I think … I think that’s my mother …”

He gives over the photo, my finger shaking as I look down at the women, my mother. I have her eyes – the same shade, the shape of them.

I notice when Will pulls out a small, black felt bag, opening it. He pulls a face and I know he’s found what the FBI was looking for. The remains. I get up, clutching the photo of my mother in my hand as the rest of the group crowded around the box and bag, Crawford taking great interest in it.

“This is it,” Will says. “He took the remains from his victims and kept them here.”

My brain feels detached from my body but the rational part of me communicates that I’m swaying slightly.

Someone’s hands are on my shoulder and elbow, a suggestion to move. I struggle to make my feet cooperate as I recognize Hannibal’s murmur about going downstairs.

Hannibal guides me gently to the door. We don’t get more than two feet away before Crawford calls after us.

“Hold on a moment,” he says. “Miss Jacobs, do you recognize this person?”

He crosses the distance that Hannibal and I tread so slowly in a few great strides. Each step matches the sound of my heartbeat, too loud and too fast. I see the photo in his gloved hand just as he holds it in front of my face.

“Jack.” Alana calls.

It sounds like it’s meant as a warning to him, but it feels like she’s trying to warn me as well. The photo is of a woman, only clothed in her underwear, a black bag over her face, slits where the eyes are. My eyes settle on the photo for a fraction of a moment too long to mistake the rendering.

Blue eyes, the same as mine.

Hannibal’s grip on my bicep tightens fractionally.

“Th-that’s my mother … ”

I shove Hannibal out of the way with more force than possible, enough to slip away, out of the door. Bile retches up to my throat and in my mouth, making me gag. Somehow, I manage to get to the toilet, kneeling down as I vomit up in the bowl of it, my mouth burning.

Someone holds back my hair as I vomit up more, tears running down my face at the pain of the retching. Finally, I stop and collapse against the base of the toilet.

“Rachel,” he says. “look at me.”

My eyes drift listlessly to his face for a moment, before dropping to the easier target of his tie. He presses his palm to my forehead, my eyelids fluttering.

“Am I in shock?” I ask.

“That depends,” he replies. “What do you feel?”

I open my mouth to answer before shutting it again. My bottom lip trembles but I inhale deeply, his instructions from the day before replaying promptly in my mind, lurching slightly at the taste in my mouth.

" … I feel… like I’m in pain. Scared. And overwhelmed, I guess.”

Hannibal gently smooths my dishevelled hair back. I lean into the soothing gesture, despite the toilet digging into my side.

“I—I want to brush my teeth and …” I pause as a shiver wracks me. “Could I have a moment please?”

Even from here, I can hear Jack and Alana arguing, Will angrily chiming in time and again.

“I will be back in just a moment. Wait here.” he says, leaving and closing the door slightly.

I take my time standing back up, my legs shaking as I lean against the sink. I brush my teeth, spitting out the mint taste of toothpaste and rising my mouth with the water from the tap I look at myself in the mirror. My skin is ashen and shines with a thin layer of sweat, my eyes wide and unblinking.

Behind me, the shower curtain is drawn across. It’s never drawn across the bath, usually.

My hands reach out the sea waves patterned shower curtain, pulling back opening.

I scream, collapsing back against the sink and sliding down, tears escaping down my face as I cover it with my hands.

The bloodied, naked corpse of Caroline Lettie sits in the bathtub, her blood splattered across the white tiled walls. Her face, eyes wide open, has been painted over with a red bloodily smile, likely in her blood. A necklace of teeth sits around her throat, her lips torn off from her face. Some of her long reddish hair has been yanked out, along with the pink nails on her hands that are clasped over her own throat, fingers interlinked with each other.

I make a weak sound, something between a whimper and a gasp as someone takes my arm and tugs me from the corner I’ve backed myself.

“Get her out of here!” Jack’s voice bellows. “Go!”

I stumble blindly down the hallway, someone very nearly trying to carry me down the stairs. The chaos wreaking havoc in my mind is breaking loose into hysterics. Somehow, we make it as far as the kitchen. I cling to the person, my mind identifying as Will, sobbing loudly into his shirt as he sinks to the floor with me, his back to the cabinets. One arm circles around the curve of my waist, his hand rubbing soothing circles over my back.

“Rachel, it’s alright. You’re alright. Nothing is going to hurt you,” Will murmurs.

I shake her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and bury my face in the collar of his shirt. A ragged gasp is ripped from my lungs. Someone else drops down my side, their perfume of fresh flower invading my nose. Alana.

“Rachel,” she says, touching my arm gently. “Rachel, let him go.”

“I-I … can't ... m-move …” I gasp out, my fingers digging into the sleeves of his jacket, which must be painful for him. My mind plagues with images of my mother and Caroline Lettie, Nora whispering murder at me. My breaths come out harder and faster, my body shaking even more.

“Try,” Alana says, sounding near now. “Here, hold onto me.”

I lift my head, turning so I can see Alana. She’s holding her hands out, her palms facing upwards, towards me. The muscles in my hands spasm for a moment, but I pry my stiff fingers away from Will’s jacket, managing to make my hands move to Alana’s. Her hands are warm and soft and she holds mine, inching me slowly away from Will, one at a time. A few centimeters apart, I sit on the floor, my head in my hands, following the instructs of Alana on how to breathe and calm down, Will rubbing circles on my back, close but far away. When I speak, my voice is soft and raw.

“W-Whoever did that … were they trying to imitate my … D-Dad?” I ask, swallowing another breath.

I feel Alana tense, Will stopping in his motion before continuing again. “Yes. But it was not your father. Your father is dead.”

I nod, sniffling a little. My eyes flutter shut as Alana smooths my hair, brushing a few strands of it out of the way. Jack Crawford appears in the doorway of the kitchen, choosing the wrong moment to appear, staring at us all huddled on the floor.

“What’s going on?” he asks warily, Hannibal by his side.

“Rachel was having a moment,” Alana explains, “but now I think Rachel needs a second to calm down, then go home and rest.”

Jack frowns. He looks like he wants to ask more about the photo but hides his defeat, stepping out of the way.

“Go ahead, Doctor Bloom.” he replies.

I clamber to my feet first and red hot embarrassment spreading as I whip away my tears, Alana and Will stand up alongside with me. Alana guides me by my hand to sit down in the living room on the sofa. I grip a cushion in my hands as I bow my head to not let anyone see my tears. Will’s, Alana’s and Jack’s voices get further away as the door closes, leaving me alone in the room. Evidence boxes are everywhere in the room, most of them lined up across the coffee table, almost looking like takeaway boxes. I muffle my sobs into the cushion.

“Don’t let anything go to waste, Rachel.” My father’s voice weaves into my brain, a normal conversion over dinner. Only now …

My brain clicks into place, more hot panic spreading in my body as I look to the pillow. He couldn’t have got rid of anything.

My hands tremble as I reach towards the boxes, opening and shoving them aside when they don’t have what I’m looking for, tears streaming down my eyes. Finally, I find what I’m looking for – a small knife. I grab it in my hands, bringing it to the pillows switches, pulling them so the pillow opens. I reach inside, bringing a handful of the stuffing out.

Hair.

Handfuls of hair, different shades in my hand. I gasp, pulling out more and more, the tears running down my face more and more.

The floor creaks and I look up, the man from yesterday staring at me, snarling.

“Stay back.” I gasp.

He takes a step towards me, the darkness of the room making a knife in his hand glint.

“I bet you killed that girl, didn’t you? You’re planning to continue your father’s work.” he hisses. “I’m not going to let you.”

He rounds the sofa as he speaks and I find myself cornered, my heart pounding. When he lunges, my muscles are already coiled to spring. I turn around and off the sofa, scrambling to my feet, yelping as the blade rips into the flesh of my calf. I ram my fist into his face, making the man pull the knife out of my calf. He latches onto my throat, throwing me to the ground. I land on my front and start to crawl away, but the man drops onto me, turning me onto my back to face him.

“You’re not leaving this room alive!” he snarls.

The knife glints in the air as he raises, one hand around my throat. I start to claw at his face, making his aim miss my face. He grunts as he slams the knife into my bicep, making me scream out in agony. My vision is already spotting and fading at the edges, the man’s knees on my ribs making my head swim with pain. My knuckles knock into something and I frantically curl my hand around the hilt of the knife, yanking it out. He suddenly makes a pained noise as I thrust the knife in his direction, his grasp on my neck loosening enough that my windpipe can manage air. I inhale deeply, body screaming, and I feel something unnaturally hot and wet soaking into my clothes.

When I glance down, the man is bleeding from his abdomen. He rolls off me, standing up as he clutches at the wound and gasping.

The door bursts open and slams against the wall, startling me. Will, Hannibal, Alana, and Jack enter the room, the man looking up at the noise, before running off, through the other door of the living towards the front. Jack storms after him, Will right behind him as Alana and Hannibal crowd around me, while I lay on the floor, grunting and crying in pain.

The knife has been dropped on the floor and the blood around it almost looks black in the dark light.


	7. Chapter 7

A doctor prods at my exposed abdomen, ribs bruised black and blue, and I wince beneath the touch. My leg and bicep have already been treated and banged up, stinging with the phantom pain. The doctor, along with Alana, help me sit back up into a more comfortable position as Crawford, Will, and Hannibal enter the room.

“Are you alright?” Will asks.

I shrug and bit my bottom lip as they approach. Hannibal stands by my knee, Will perching on the edge of the bed next to me on the opposite of Alana, Crawford standing directly in front of me.

“My ribs are bruised, and my calf and bicep needed a few stitches, but I’m okay otherwise. Physically, at least.” I reply.

“I’m sorry that this happened to you … again.” Will say.

I shake my head and touches his hand, the hospital lighting making the blood under my nails more visible. His other hand rests over the top of mine.

“It’s not your fault,” I reply. “I guess there’s some supernatural force that apparently wants me dead.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says. “If some greater force or being wanted to see you dead, it surely would have succeeded the first time, and we would not be having this conversation.”

“Are you implying this is all sort of some divine plan?”

“Some people of faith might call it that, yes. A means to a greater end.”

“Miss Jacobs,” Crawford speaks, his voice booming in the small room. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”

It feels more of a demanded than a question, but I answer, the words coming from my mouth numb and factual.

“I already told the police. The man from before, Lucas May the police told me, he came into the living room when I was alone, and he had a knife. We fought and he stabbed me. But I got the knife and I—I stabbed him.”

“What happened next?” Crawford presses, his mouth forming a frim line. I don’t notice when I snuggle further into Will’s side, when he brings an arm around me or when Alana rubs my back.

“H-H got off me and ran out of the room. I don’t know where.”

Crawford nods but doesn’t look pleased - he looks the opposite of it, maxed to 100 percent.

“Do you know why he tried to kill you?”

“He said that I … killed that girl. And he said he wasn’t going to let me continue.”

Crawford sighs as Alana shots him a sharp look, almost like telling a child off for being trouble. Instantly I feel more protected. Alana and Will my protectors, Hannibal standing guard, his jacket over his arm as he just looks on, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Alright. I don’t have any more questions for you today, Miss Jacobs. Good day.” And with that, he leaves, his heavy thuds of his shoes echoing through the hallways.

The doctor leaves after away, Hannibal walking alongside him, leaving me, Will and Alana alone, each of us silent.

“What’s going to happen now?” I mumble, my eyelids dropping.

“You go home, back to the hospital.” Alana answers. I can still feel her hand on my back.

“The hospital isn’t home.”

I close my eyes and breath, my ribs aching with each breath.

 

When I wake up, I’m back in my[ room](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/cc/e8/94/cce894cb913b11bd38c28890e7b690c9.jpg) at the hospital, my shoes removed and wrapped in a blanket on my bed. I rub my eyes, turning on my side to face to bedside clock. ‘2:00am’ it reads in blue lighting in the dark room. I pull the lamp switch and the room floods in light, blinding me for a moment until my eyes become used to it. I manage to sit up without much pain, only grunting when my ribs ache, collapsing against the plump pillows. Will’s jacket is still on me, the smell of dogs and the outdoors fading. I run my fingers on the fabric, winching when the stitches on my bicep pull. My shoulder is fine now, but it seems for every old injury that heals, I acquire a new one.

There’s a white envelope on my bedside. I pick it up, peeling it open and pulling out the letter. It’s small, with neat handwriting a name signed at the bottom.

Dear Rachel,  
Our time was cut short last time. As I was to offer before Will Graham and Dr. Lecter stopped me, I would like very much to tell your story. If you wish to, please do not hesitate to contact me, my details on my business card.  
Sincerely, Ms Freddie Lounds

Her business car flutters out of the envelope, landing on my lap. Somehow, I manage not to crump the letter up, instead opening the drawer and placing it inside. I turn around, laying on my side away from the drawer and close my eyes, the light keeping the monsters away.


	8. Chapter 8

“I can hide what happened to me. All I need is a scarf to cover it up, hide it.”

 

I run my fingers over the scar mark on my neck, looking in the mirror of my room, healed but still visible. My father’s hand suddenly appears, vanishing as quickly as he comes, and I gasp, stepping back from the mirror. After a moment of regaining my composure, I reach over to the side, wrapping the fabric of one of the many scarfs Alana gave me around my neck quickly. It coils around my throat, tightening but I pull it, easing my breathing.

 

 

“Hiding what happened to you defeats the purpose of being here. Sharing will help normalize.” Alana says as we walk through the outdoor gardens, the cold biting at my arms as I shiver, wrapping them around my front.

“I’m not normal ... not anymore.”

“What happened to you was abnormal.” Alana counters back.

I stuff my hands in my coat. “Some of these women in the group aren't even sharing. They speak in “little girl voices”, telling everyone what was done to them without saying a word about it. It’s so creepy.”

“Certain traumas can arrest vocal development. And victims can sometimes broadcast victimhood involuntarily.” Alana says, seemly having an answer for everything. I sigh.

“Not me.”

“That's not necessarily true. Your victimhood has a high profile.” We come to a stop, Alana facing me with a sympathetic smile on her face.

“Tattle crime made sure of that,” I could feel myself frowning. “One of the women in the group asked me if I kept my stained clothes.”

“How did that me you feel?”

“ … Like I was dirty. Like I wanted to go home,” I mumble, my head now bowed down, staring at the cracks in the cermet. “But I don’t have a home anymore, do I?”

Alana falters for a moment, before speaking. “You will. You will, I’ll help you find it.”

I try to smile but it must end up flat as silence falls on us for a brief second. The autumn coloured leaves fall as a gust of wind blows around, red and organs fluttering around us.

“Rachel, I’d like to you to give the support group another chance – “

“Support groups are sucking the life out of me!” I blurt out aggressively, drawing my shoulders in on myself, huffing. A second later, guilt bubbles in my chest for being rude to Alana when I know she’s only trying to help.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t be,” Alana says, reaching out a hand to touch my shoulder, squeezing it barely. “It’s only natural. But you have to find someone to relate to in this experience.”

“Easier said than done.” I mumble as we continue to walk.

 

 

“I don't think I'm allowed to leave unless Alana says so.” I say, closing the Flannery O’Connor book Alana had given me, looking up to Hannibal.

“I've made arrangements. You could say I'm ... one of your guardians.” Hannibal answers, seated in a chair next to my bed as I sit up.

“Where are we going?”

 “Home. My home. I thought you might enjoy if I cooked for you. I'll have you back before bedtime.”

“Can I spend the night?” I mumble, keeping my eyes downcast from Hannibal’s, my eyes burning through the book as I feel embarrassment spread through me. “I don’t like sleeping here. I have bad dreams.”

I haven’t even told Alana about this. Some part of my thinks she’ll just put me in another support group, and nothing will help. With Hannibal and Will, though, it’s easier to tell.

“You have to sleep in your own bed, Rachel.” Hannibal says.

“This isn’t my bed.” I counter back and Hannibal shifts, only displaying it in his eyes as his body remains motionless.

“Tell me about your bad dreams.” Hannibal changes the subject.

I sigh, my body tensing. “I had one where my father took me hunting in the forest next to our house.”

“Your father took you hunting?” Hannibal asks, cocking his head a little. I manage to nod, my breath shakily.

“Yeah, always in the summer. In my dream, it was just like how we always hunted before. Until I’d realised I’d shot C-Caroline Lettie instead of the deer. When I realised, my father, he dragged me to a cabin and there were all these bodies everywhere. He held a knife to my throat and said I had to help them – not let them go to waste otherwise they were just rubbish.”

“Like what your father did to you and his victims.” Hannibal says and I look up, meeting his unwavering gaze before backing down, like a scared animal.

“Even though he’s dead, I’m afraid he and Lucas May will come back and kill me. Or that the FBI will lock me up cause I’m like him.”

Silence ensures as I sniff, whipping away my tears. “Sorry. Can’t really talk about this in the support group.”

“You unfortunately don’t have that luxury, Rachel.” Hannibal says as I sit up, moving off the bed.

“I just have to get used to lying then.”

I reach over the dresser, pulling on my coat as Hannibal stands up, moving the chair away from the bed. “You only have to lie about one thing. And when you're with me you don't have to lie about anything.

“In my dreams, I wonder how I could live with myself. Knowing what I did to Lucas May and what happened to Caroline Lettie.” I answer, shivering

“And when you're awake?” Hannibal probes.

“When I'm awake, I know I can live with myself. And I'll just get used to what I did. Does that make me a sociopath?”

 “No. It makes you a survivor.” And he opens the door, letting me out first, closing it firmly behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

__

I feel terribly small in the opulent foyer of Hannibal’s house. The inside of the house is a pallet of rich, dark colours and tasteful decoration—never mind what the rest of the house must look like. And yet … it feels sterile, like something you’d see out of an interior design magazine. It has all fixtures of a normal home, but they don’t appear as though they are meant to be used practically.

The kitchen is a wide, open space, and possibly the room with the most genuine feeling. Every surface is pristinely clean, nearly shining where the appliances are metal or glass. The wood is all one tone, warm and inviting. Afternoon light struggles through double doors covered by blinds. Hannibal has already pulled ingredients from the fridge and from the pantries, a cutting board beside the vegetables and a professional chef’s knife. Hannibal peels a potato as he speaks, calm and collected.

“It's important to know when it's time to turn the page. Have you thought about applying for schools?”

“I wanted to study art and history, but my dad killed girls that looked like me at all the schools I applied to.” I say, pulling a face. The news reports on TV and tattle crimes articles went into such detail that they’re permanently integrated into my mind. They showed the photos of the victims – girls, that eerily look almost like my twins.

Hannibal pauses for a micro second. “Perhaps that can wait then.”

“I wouldn’t mind working for the FBI or going into psychiatry.” I say, feeling shy as Hannibal smiles at me, pleased.

“I would certainly feel safer if you were in the FBI protecting me or taking after my interests.”

“They wouldn't let me though, would they? Because of what my dad did. “

 “Only if they believe that's in your nature too.” Hannibal answer, moving on to a different potato to peel.

“Nature versus nurture.” I mutter, my shoulder shagging. I shouldn’t have know that Crawford wouldn’t let me anywhere near the FBI or any type of law enforcement without someone watching over me, in case I suddenly take after my father.

“You're not your father's daughter, not anymore.” Hannibal says, watching as I shiver, my face grimacing. “What if it weren't so painful anymore, to think of him?”

 “My dad?” I say, shaking my head.

 “Yes. Have you ever tried Psilocybin?”

“Mushrooms?” I look over to the see-through teapot, steaming on the side. “That's what's in the tea?”

“Yes. There are those psychiatrists who believe that altered states could be used to access traumatic memories.” Hannibal explains as we both move around the stainless-steel counter, towards the teapot.

“I have all the access to traumatic memories I need. Unlimited access.” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, frowning hard as I think about what’s happened in the past weeks since my life has gone too bad to worse.

“Which is why we need to supplement them with positive associations. No more bad dreams, Rachel.” Hannibal lifts the teapot up, pouring the rich smelling liquid into a small tea cup carefully, not a drop spilling anywhere.

 I raise my eyebrows. “You want me to do drugs?”

 “I want you to do this drug. With my supervision, it's quite safe.” The teapot is set back down, and Hannibal lifts the tea cup, handing to over to me.  “Do you trust me?”

I wait a second, both me and Hannibal looking at each other without backing down before I take the tea cup, warmth seeping through my fingers and hands. I take the tea cup’s handle in my hand and lift it, bringing to my lips where I drink from it, sweetness filling my mouth. I almost feel like I’ve taken a bit out of snow white’s apple.

 

The smell of eggs and sausages invaded my nose as Hannibal cooks. He smiles as I watch, my head vaguely feeling of cotton wool, my body almost swaying on the spot. My mind flashes to the moments of hunting with my father, out in the wood, the shade of leaves turning from orange and red to green. The rifle in my hands feels too heavy, weighing me down as I aim with it, peering into the scope, holding my breath as my father stands behind me, a hand on my shoulder. We blend into the foliage around us, our clothes matching the bright lush greens, the deer taking no notice of us as it grazes the forest floor.

“Easy Rachel, take your time.” He says, my finger on the trigger.

I pull it, the loud shot echoing as the deer falls down dead, birds from the canopy flying away as they squeak, spooked by the loud sound. Dad lets a breath, pulling me closer as he kisses the side of my head. I just stare in horror at the deer’s body on the floor as he rushes off to collect it, whistling as he goes.

My vision becomes barley as I stare at the tea cup, it heavy in my hands, just like the rifle. My fingers dip and let go of it entirely, the tea cup falling to the tiled floor and smashing.

I look at it, my head somewhat clear – when did it drop?

“Alana said this was okay?” I ask, glancing around the kitchen in new fascination.

Hannibal walks around the counters, kneeling down as he collects the pieces of the tea cup. “Not at all. We often have a difference of opinion.”

I hum, walking away from Hannibal, a burst of bright orange catching my eye. Walking closer to it reveals a wobbling and blurry mess of a fruit bowl. “More secrets for us.” I say, picking up one of the orange fruits, running my fingers over the smooth texture.

“Well, You and I will have many secrets.” Hannibal says as I fall in too a sofa chair, slumping in it as I studied the seemly moving fruit, turning it around in my hands. “Infusing Psilocybin into the bloodstream before psychotherapy can elicit a positive, even spiritual, experience for patients.”

Hannibal kneels before me as my head suddenly feels too heavy, a weird feeling of sick bubbling in my stomach, the fruit leaving my hands. “Psychological trauma is an affliction of the powerless. I want to give you your power back.”

“I don’t … feel so good.” I shutter out, my tongue now too large to fit in my mouth.

“That feeling will pass.” He reaches towards my face, holding it in his hands, looking straight into my eyes as I mirror him. “All it to wash over you, through you. Let me be your guide”

Seconds pass, my head lifting, my body feeling as if it's floating, the smell of eggs and sausages drifting through the room.

“You’re making breakfast for dinner?” I ask, words sounding like words.

Hannibal smiles, getting back up as I follow, watching as he cooks once again.

“High Life eggs,” he says. “A chef in Spain called Muro claimed he invented it in the 19th century.” He throws one of the peeled potatoes up in the air. It falls on his knife, partly cutting it up. I smile as he smiles with pleasure.

“Taste is not only biochemical, it’s also psychological.” Hannibal explains as he cuts the potatoes. I look over to the pan of eggs and sausages s, puzzling over memories.

“Sausage and eggs was the last meal I’d shared with my Dad and Grandmother.” I recall, thinking back to that last breakfast. Was it just as elaborate as Hannibal’s?

“I know,” Hannibal says. “It’s also the first meal you’re having with me.”

We both smile as he places the potatoes in the pan, the sound of them sizzling filling the air.

 

 

The table is decorated with all types of breakfast dishes, ranging from artistically stacked fruit to the High Life eggs Hannibal made earlier. The lights are dimed low enough that the candles sitting on the table burn brightly. Shoes click against the floors and Alana comes into the room, looking surprised.

“Hi, Alana.” I greet.

“Hello, Rachel.” Alana says, glancing to the table. She looks to the empty plate in front of me. “You were expecting me?”

Hannibal walks in after her, pulling the seat back. “Please.”

Alana sits down, Hannibal pushing the chair back in and sitting in his own at the head of the table.

“Hannibal made breakfast for dinner.” I say, watching as Alana smiles.

“I could eat.” She says as Hannibal pours bright orange juice into her cup.

I rub my eyes, my whole body heavy, a yawn escaping my mouth. I feel so tired, but I have to eat first.

“Are you alright Rachel?” Alana asks. I manage to nod.

“I’m just sleepy …”

The world seems blurry as if sleep was invading me but I see Alana smile sympathetically.

“Have some food first,” Hannibal’s voice echoes. “And then Alana will take you home.”

For I second, I stare at them, their faces blurry. Dad and Gran morph into view, the both of them smiling back at me, then morphing back to Hannibal and Alana. I nod my head and pick up my fork.


	10. Chapter 10

The room is quiet as we all sit in a circle, all of us not looking at each other as the sun filters through the windows, the plants around soaking it up. I breathe through my nose, sucking in the air as I start to speak.

“Every day, I wake up and ... I hear my dad's voice. Like he was kneeling next to my bed. He whispers what he told me.”

I try to blink back the tears that are forming in my eyes, my mind flashes back to when he held the blade to my throat.

“He told me he killed girls and families like me, like my family, so he wouldn’t have to kill me or our family.”

Caroline Lettie’s body flashes in my mind for a second as I pause, mustering my breath to continue.

“I wish he was still alive so I could ask him … what was so wrong with me and our family. What did do wrong to make him want to kill me?”

“He should have.”

I look up, my mouth hanging open as I look at the dead body of one of the victims that could be my twin, the white nightgown she wears bloodied, her skin ashen.

“He should have killed you.”

I just stare at her, my tears running now my face as I’m rooted to my seat, paralyzed by fear as more girls appear, surrounding me. Each of them bloodied and ashen, obviously dead, killed by my father.

“So, he wouldn't have killed me.”

“So, he wouldn't have killed me.”

“So, he wouldn't have killed me.”

“So, he wouldn't have killed me.”

They all speak, their voice echoing around the room and the inside of my head, louder and louder each time. My breathing becomes harder and faster, the room dimming and shrinking in size on me. I cover my ear, squeezing my eyes shut.

“He should have killed you.” Someone else’s voice breaks through, the girl's voices quieting. I look up, Lucas May standing before me, a knife gripped in his hands. Around us the girls watch. My brain whirls in panic, every part of my body shaking with phantom pain.

“So, he wouldn’t have killed my sister.”

He slams the knife into my stomach

how my father did to my grandmother, twisting it as I gasp and cry in pain, my blood running down like a fountain of red. He pulls it back out and slams it back, growing more violent each time. I’m helpless to do nothing – my hands grip on the sleeves of his coat while blood escapes my lips, but I can’t move, can’t shout.

The door to the room is broken down and Will rushes in, a gun in his hands. Gunshots echo out, hitting Lucas May each time until he crumples down to the floor. My body now falls to the floor, now able to move as I twitch. I feel Will presses his hands on my stomach, but more and more blood gushes out from his hands, a sea of blood surrounding us. I feel myself slowly stiffing as Will becomes more desperate until my vision fades to black, Will’s blood-splattered face fading away.

 

 

I wake in my bed at the hospital, panting heavily as I surge forward, waking up properly. Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a gasp, tears running down my face as I begin to cry.

 

 

 

“They sold my house. Murder houses don't fetch big money in today's real estate market.” I say, closing the door of my room, turning around and crossing my arms as I face Freddie. She sits on my bed, completely dressed in black, standing out against the floral walls.

“Not that you'll get any of it,” she says. I furrow my eyebrows. “The families of your father's victims filed wrongful death suits.” Freddie continues.

“Wrongful death?”

“That means that they get everything, Rachel. Every penny. What you have here is all you have.” Freddie gesturing around the room.

I sit on the bed opposite her, grimacing as my mind rushes around. After a moment I speak.

“Let them take it. I don’t want any of his money.” I say, shaking my head as I sag my shoulders, my whole body collapsing in on itself.

“You could make your own money.” Freddie suggests, a glint of something in her eyes.

“How much would I get … if you wrote about me?” I ask, my voice small and quiet in the room. “About … my Dad?”

“Plenty.” Freddie answers.

“Do you still want to tell my story?”

“I think you need to tell your own story, but I am the one to help you tell it. No one knows more about what your father did than I do.” Freddie places a hand over mine and I manage not to flinch away.

I raise my eyebrows. “Not even Will Graham?”

"Will Graham is part of the story you tell, Rachel, not the person to help you tell it.”

I pause. “He gave me a present for Christmas. Fly tack gear and a magnifying glass. But he avoids me.”

“He avoids you because you make him feel like your father. Feeling about your father makes him feel like a killer.” Freddie says, not caring as I flinch at her words.

“People think I … killed those girls …” I whisper.

“Well, you can change what people think. We can change that together.” Freddie squeezes my hand. “Everyone will know the truth.”

I let the words seep into my mind as I fumble over my thoughts and words on the tip of my tongue. I don’t want to be near Freddie, but I want everyone to know that I didn’t help my Dad, that I didn’t kill those girls and families. At long last, I look up to Freddie.

“Ok. Let’s tell my story.”


	11. Chapter 11

“I'm trying to be understated when I say that this is a bad idea.”

“Freddie Lounds is dangerous.”

I pause in my movements of setting up the board game, looking up to Will and Hannibal. “She said she wanted me to write about you guys in the book.”

“You would be forfeiting your privacy and ours.” Hannibal exchanges looks with Will before answering. Will shakes his head, clearly frustrated and a pang of guilt travels through my body.

“This … this … well, all of this will change. Whatever you’re feeling now, that won’t last. Things change.” Will says, sighing.

I look down to the board game, biting my lip as he moves forward, towards me. 

“Things are changing for me too. I’m doing some accounting of what’s important in my life and what isn’t.”

By the time he’s a few paces apart, I look up, Hannibal standing just behind him, his expression cool and collected from Will’s.

“You are important, Rachel.”

I grip the sleeves of my jumper, clenching my fingers into the fabric, anger gripping at me. “Just because you killed my Dad doesn’t mean to get to be him – you don’t even visit me.”

Will immediately looks crestfallen, his face and body dropping, guilt welling up inside of me. Just with Alana, I made them feel bad and it’s all my fault.

“Rachel, we've been through a traumatic event, and no one more traumatized than you, Rachel, but we went through it together.” Hannibal interjects, standing next to Will, taller than him. “What you write, you write about all of us.”

“I don’t need your permission.” I say, standing up in my seat and crossing my arms.

“And you don’t need our approval,” Hannibal says. “but I hope it would mean something.”

Silence settles over us as I take a shakily breathe, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. 

“I know what people think of me. Why can’t I tell everyone they’re wrong?” I whisper.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Will speaks but Hannibal steps forward, cutting him off.

“But if you open this door, Rachel, you won’t control what comes through. Are you ready for that?”


End file.
